


Career Opportunities (in the Christmas Season)

by cereal



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No," Regina says, practically seething now. "You and Emma will be our sexy Santa and Mrs. Claus. You will attend the holiday parties of adults and you will be an attractive, modern spin on jolly old Saint Nick and his jolly old wife — do you understand?" (party entertainer AU!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Career Opportunities (in the Christmas Season)

**Author's Note:**

> This was not supposed to be my longest fic in the fandom to date, nor was it supposed to be a Christmas fic, and yet here we are! Title (sort of) from a Clash song, for the fourth fic in a row. You can [find this on Tumblr, here](http://allrightfine.tumblr.com/post/134065100256/fic-career-opportunities-in-the-christmas)!
> 
> (+ a special shout-out to this-too-too-sullied-flesh, who convinced me it was worth waiting on posting this 'til we got out of the Thanksgiving woods. I managed it, barely.)

Really, the only thing keeping her from assault at this point is how bad it would look in front of a jury.

Roughing up a pirate entertainer at a children's birthday party sounds like a one-way ticket back to jail.

(And, frankly, as much of a prison as this pink dress is, it's not an _actual_ one.)

Even if she's confident her motive is justified.

Even if she's confident it would feel really, _really_ good.

It's still a no.

Her fantasies of taking that damn hook from his hand and clubbing him with it will have to remain just that — fantasies.

Besides, even if jail didn't get her, Regina definitely would — next to Emma, Killian's the most frequently requested and versatile entertainer they have.

Something he makes a point of telling her every time they're booked together, which is happening more and more frequently lately. A combination of twins' parties and a run of progressive parenting and suddenly everybody wants a pirate _and_ a princess (or _whatever_ ), instead of just one or the other.

At least today is almost over — just the pinata and the cake-cutting left. She smiles for another picture as Killian works the room and she counts no less than fourteen "accidents" that could happen to him as he does it.

Surely no jury would convict her if the bookcase just happened to fall over, right?

&&.

It's egregious enough that they have to drive to and from jobs in a company car — a Land Rover wrapped with tacky "Evil Queen Entertainment" branding — but all the trappings of her costume, the puffy dress and sparkly heels, mean that she can't even be the one to drive it.

No, that's a job for Killian and his dumb leather pants and flat boots and penchant for staying past the time they're even being paid for.

When he finally slips into the driver's seat today, they're a full forty minutes off the clock, and the tip Emma's clutching in her hand definitely does not reflect the above-and-beyond service.

"Here's your half," she says, handing him a few bills.

"Thanks, lass," he says, slipping the money into the pocket of his pants — a cause for even more outrage, he has fucking _pockets_.

"You know, you can cut it out with the pirate-speak once we're in the car."

He winks at her. "I think you like it."

"What I'd _like_ is to get home on time, something that's gonna be impossible with you staying to flirt with Mrs. Gunderson."

(It's not an _entirely_ accurate accusation — she knows he steers pretty clear of married women, absent-mindedly rubbing at the tattoo on his arm whenever any of them start in, but it's easier to be hostile about it this way, than him staying late to play swords with the kids.)

"And why's that? Hot date tonight, Swan?"

"Yeah, I'm going out with _Mr_. Gunderson," she shoots back.

"Lucky man."

"Just drive, Killian."

&&.

It's not that they don't make a decent hourly rate — they do. The base pay is twice minimum wage, and they get to pocket their tips free and clear, it's just that the hours are so inconsistent that almost all of them have second jobs.

Robin works construction.

Mary Margaret is a teacher.

David's at the animal shelter.

Killian works at his brother's bar.

Leroy...well, no one quite knows.

And Emma herself chases down bail jumpers.

(Another reason to avoid the assault charge and a trip to jail — too many people in there that would _love_ to get a shot at her.)

It's a lot of hectic schedules and running around and it leaves very little time for any of them to meet anybody else, even in a city as big as Boston, which means they hang out with each other, or no one.

And it also means they typically just hang out at Liam's bar — Killian's already there, the onion rings are fine (if not Granny's level), and the beer is worth much more than they usually pay for it.

Which is why it's been six hours since the Gunderson's party and, despite all her big talk, Emma is right back in Killian's presence. And Mary Margaret's. And David's. And Robin's.

They're debating the merits of badgering Liam into turning on the little tabletop trivia game when there's a chorus of chimes and vibrations from everyone's phones.

Emma glances down at hers to see a meeting request from Regina filling the screen, and looks to Killian behind the bar. He holds up his phone and nods, confirming he got it, too, and then goes back to pulling a pint.

"Is she serious? Sunday morning? That's, god, that's like, eight hours from now," Emma groans, dropping her head to her hand.

"Oh come on, Emma, it'll be all right," David says, swiping at his phone to accept the meeting. "What do you sleep — four hours a night anyway? This is plenty of time."

"No, this is so _typical_ , that woman is such a —"

Across from her, Robin clears his throat.

"— a benevolent and kind-hearted employer," she finishes, through gritted teeth.

"There it is," Robin says. "I knew that sentence was going to have a lovely end."

"You know, I liked it better when you two were just secretly in love with each other, this whole publicly dating thing really throws a wrench in the works."

"And what works would those be?" Robin says, signaling for Killian to drop another round.

"Bitching about the boss with your coworkers — it's good, like, _bonding_ and stuff."

Mary Margaret jumps in, right on cue. "Oh, I think it's sweet, finding true love at work. Better than — what's that thing — _Timber_?"

"It's _Tinder_ , Mary Margaret, and let me assure you — it's not _true love_ anyone's using it for."

Mary Margaret sniffs primly. "Right, well, at least they're _trying_ , when's the last time you went on a date, Emma?"

"Ohhhh, is _that_ what this is? Time for our bi-monthly 'Emma Should Get Out More' conversation?"

"What's this?" Killian says, walking up to set the pints on the table. "Are we talking about our Emma getting out more? Darling, just tell them about Mr. Gunderson."

"Who?" David says, stopping with his glass halfway to his mouth — even more predictable than the routine harassment over her love life is David's weird protective vibe about it.

"Mr. Gunderson, about 5'6", soulful brown eyes, dreamy bald head. He and Emma are gonna make a go of it," Killian says, ruffling Emma's hair. "I really hope you two crazy kids work things out."

She pats down her hair, glaring at him. "So you can swoop in and console  _Mrs_. Gunderson? Please, as if I'd make it that easy for you."

"Oh, Swan, you _never_ make things easy for me. I'd say you make them very, _very_ hard." He winks, moving to sit in the empty chair next to her — Leroy had abandoned them an hour ago, to do whatever Leroy does.

"You're a nuisance," she tells him, snatching her newest pint. "And I'm not paying for this one."

" _Nuisance_? Such a big word, love, I see I'm rubbing off on you —"

She can hear it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, the impending innuendo.

"— of course, there are other, more enjoyable ways for me to rub off on —"

The last bit is swallowed up as a wet rag hits Killian square in the head.

"Little brother! Stop flirting and get back to your post."

Emma snorts. "Yeah, _little brother_ , go do your job."

He rises from the chair, tapping her on the nose. "Nothing _little_ about me at all, Swan."

She can't let him have the last word, even if he's already halfway across the bar, which is how she finds herself shouting, "That's not what Mrs. Gunderson said!" to the amused looks of the rest of the table.

"Well," Robin says, "as much as I'm enjoying the hypocrisy of you disparaging being secretly in love with your coworkers _right_ before a display like that, I've got to get home to Regina."

He's up and heading toward the door before Emma can respond and it's only the fact that she's _just_ shouted across the bar that keeps her from doing it again.

This, too, is bi-monthly, usually on alternating weeks though — the accusations that she and Killian are secretly in love with each other.

It's not that she wouldn't consider sleeping with him, because, frankly, she probably would, in some universe where she didn't have to see him after, but the idea of _her_ being _in love_ with _anyone_?

There's no universe where that's happening.

Not ever again.

&&.

Her biggest mistake ends up being that final pint — the one she said she wasn't paying for and the one he didn't dare charge her for.

It's that last pint, she can feel it, that has her practically crawling into the conference room the next morning, clutching gratefully at the cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon placed in front of her chair without thinking twice about it.

At least, until Killian points it out.

"This is a trap," he hisses at her, gesturing at the conference table, the drinks all carefully positioned in front of everyone's usual seats.

There's some soy Starbucks monstrosity in front of Mary Margaret, orange juice in front of David, a cup of gas station coffee in front of Leroy, and a gleaming, royal blue can of Red Bull in front of Killian — everyone's preferred morning drink — and donuts, even their respective _donuts_ , she can already see her bear claw, on a platter in the center.

Oh my god, he's _right_.

"Oh my god, you're _right_."

Before they can begin speculating on the nature of the trap — or run — everyone else is filing in, looking delighted with their breakfasts where Emma can now only feel suspicion.

Robin rounds out the group, Regina right on his heels, and both of them slip into their chairs as Regina calls for their attention.

"Thank you all for coming," she says. "I realize this is quite early for some of you, however it couldn't wait. Tomorrow marks the beginning of a new chapter for Evil Queen Entertainment."

"What? Are you firing us? Oh, god, she's firing us," Leroy says, way, _way_ too loudly for Emma's hangover.

"Calm down, little man, I'm not firing you," Regina snaps. "I'm _promoting_ you. Well...sort of."

Next to Emma, Killian pops open the top of his Red Bull. "Promotions don't require bribes."

"These aren't _bribes_ , pirate. They're perks — to show my appreciation for all the extra hours you'll be allowed to have over the next month."

"Maybe better to just show them," Robin says, clearly attempting to mediate whatever's brewing.

"You're right," Regina says. "Sidney — if you please."

They all turn toward the door as Sidney wheels in a rack of clothing, all red and white and — no. No, no, no.

"This year, Evil Queen Entertainment is proud to wish you a very merry Christmas!"

The room goes quiet, everyone staring at the costume rack.

"Bloody hell," Killian whispers, still gaping in horror at the seemingly endless array of red velvet.

"Now, to do this right, we'll need to make sure we cover all corners of the market," Regina says, striding over to the rack and selecting two costumes. "David and Mary Margaret, these will be yours — traditional Santa and Mrs. Claus."  

They both stand and accept their costumes, David shrugging and Mary Margaret not looking nearly as put out as she ought to.

"Leroy, you'll be our solo — well, _bargain_ — Santa."

He grabs his costume, pinching the edges and holding it up in front of himself.

"They've already been tailored to your measurements," Regina says. "No need to worry."

Emma darts a look back to the rack, the only things left look...quite... _small_ in comparison to everyone else's.

"And you two," Regina says, gesturing at her and Killian. "You'll be Santa and Mrs. Claus as well."

"If that's true, _your majesty_ , you'll be needing a refund, because those —" Killian gestures to the rack, "— look nothing like _those_." He points at David and Mary Margaret.

"I assure you, Mr. Jones, these are the correct costumes. Together, you'll be providing entertainment for more — shall we say — _mature_ holiday parties?"

"What?" Emma nearly screeches.

"Now, calm down, Emma, it's not what you think," Regina says.

"Oh, really? What is it that I think? Enlighten me."

"I don't mean _mature_ like _that_."

"Like what?"

"Like a stripper," Regina finally relents.

"Damn right I'm not," Emma says, and then immediately feels a spike of guilt, thinking of all the women she met in prison, the ones who did what they could to stay afloat.

Or did what they did because they enjoyed it.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," she clarifies to Killian, because he's closest.

He nods amicably. "Aye."

"Are you through?" Regina asks, crossing her arms.

Emma's admittedly lost the plot a little bit, there's something to be indignant about here, she _knows_ there is, but she just — she can't fight it until she knows exactly what _it_ is.

"Yeah, I guess," she says.

"Terrific," Regina says. "I mean _mature_ in the grown-up sense, some holiday parties are a bit more contemporary now. You and Captain Hook over there —"

"Oh, do I get to wear the hook for this?" Killian interrupts, sitting up straighter and clearly envisioning some pirate/Santa hybrid.

(There's a ho-ho-ho joke rattling around his skull somewhere already, she's sure of it.)

" _No_ ," Regina says, practically seething now. "You and Emma will be our sexy Santa and Mrs. Claus. You will attend the holiday parties of _adults_ and you will be an attractive, modern spin on jolly old Saint Nick and his jolly old wife — do you understand?"

They both nod and Regina grabs the costumes from the rack, shoving them toward Emma and Killian.

"Good, you're booked Friday night at an office party."

"But —" Emma says, at the exact same time as Killian.

"But what?" Regina snaps, clearly done with their combativeness.

"Just — we both have second jobs," Killian tells her, but there's little fight left in his words, they're both licked and he knows it.

"Remind me again how your _second_ job is of concern to the employer of your _first_?"

"It's not," Emma says. "We'll handle it, right, Killian?"

He looks like maybe he'd press it, if Emma wanted him to, but she shakes her head.

"Right," he says, shuffling the outfit in his hands. "Let's see these things."

Emma follows suit, the both of them dismantling their new costumes piece by piece.

They're not as bad as they could be, especially Killian's, which is comprised of mostly normal clothes, but in black and red.

He's got black pants, a black button-down and tie, plus a nicely cut red blazer, and a traditional Santa hat. There's a pair of expensive-looking boots still on the bottom part of the rack, and Sidney rushes to hand him those, too.

"Does it meet with your approval, Mr. Jones?" Regina asks, tone conveying that she literally couldn't care less whether it does or not.

"Aye."

"And you, Miss Swan?"

Emma's own costume is a bit more of a trainwreck, but still not as bad as it could be — a dress made of the same red velvet as Killian's blazer, hemmed to hit probably somewhere on her upper thigh, a tight bodice, a low neckline, all of it trimmed in white fur.

She's got her own dumb hat and expensive-looking boots — well, _booties_ — black leather with a spiked heel, plus what look to be several pairs of fishnet stockings and flesh colored tights to go under them.

Well, at least there was _some_ consideration given to the temperature of a Boston winter.

"Yeah, it's fine," Emma says, trying to put it all back on the hanger.

" _Fabulous_ ," Regina says and then turns to address the room at large. "I'll have Sidney make sure you all get the addresses for your bookings, as usual. You're dismissed."

Emma turns for the door, making it halfway down the hall with her costume in hand before Killian's jogging to catch up with her and shoving a napkin-covered...something at her.

"You forgot your bear claw," he says.

"Oh. Uh, thanks."

He winks. "Just one of the many perks of being married to me."

" _What_?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Claus," he says, gesturing back and forth between their costumes.

Oh, Christ, he's right.

For all their time working together, they've never actually had to play a _couple_.

They're almost always two self-contained things the way Regina books them — pirate and princess, Elsa and Buzz Lightyear, Rapunzel and that guy from The Lego Movie.

They exist in the same space, but they don't have to play off of each other.

That's more David and Mary Margaret's fare — Snow White and Prince Charming, Belle and the Beast, whatever and whatever.

The closest _they've_ ever come is the time Emma went as Princess Peach and Killian as Mario — but they'd been kept apart by the birthday boy, who repeatedly screamed at Killian whenever he got too close to Emma that his princess was in another castle.

It was actually pretty hilarious.

But this, now, there's no _way_ they'll get away with not interacting with each other.

He'll probably even manage to look dashing in the suit, _and_ tell her so.

Merry fucking Christmas.

&&.

The first gig is relatively easy, a company holiday mixer with a group of coal miners where she and Killian stick out like sore thumbs in their fancy Christmas clothes.

They'd both spent the first twenty minutes wondering why the job didn't go to Leroy instead — especially since most of the men seem too frightened to come near Emma — when they'd actually spotted Leroy among the guests.

He'd called her, "sister" across the party, leading to a widespread misunderstanding that Killian fucking _reveled_ in.

_Can you grow a beard like that?_

_I hope that hairline's not hereditary._

_You guys definitely have the same nose._

She almost — _almost_ — played the foster kid/orphan card at least ten times, because it would definitely have shut him up, but there was something about the teasing, the way she was able to lob back comments about Liam getting all the looks _and_ brains in Killian's own family that she enjoyed.

It felt...normal.

Like maybe this is how it really would've been to have a brother, a family.

(She'd made a point of flirting with Liam the next night at the bar and the indignation on Killian's face was worth all of it.)

(And when David caught on and begin glowering at Liam, she realized maybe she _did_ have a brother, sort of, anyway.)

(She could definitely do worse.)

&&.

The second, third, and fourth parties were a mixed bag.

First, there were bored housewives that cared much more about Killian than her.

(In fact, she'd even recognized some of them from kids' parties, enough that she'd wondered if Killian had been specially requested.

He probably could've come as the fucking Holiday Armadillo and they wouldn't have minded.)

Next, a rowdy Christmas mixer near BU where'd she trounced Killian in beer pong, but they'd both definitely lost the following morning in the Hangover Olympics.

(Or won them?)

(It was brutal, and not worth revisiting.)

Third, they'd attended a charity event for foster kids in the stead of Mary Margaret and David, who had to call out last minute after receiving some "big news."

A boy there had taken a special shine to Killian, following him around all evening and insisting on receiving tips about playing Santa Claus, as this was, "something he was looking into for the future."

Emma understood, the fantasies and escapism and laundry list of things you think and do in foster care just to get through the day, but Killian — it could've seemed weird to him.

It didn't though, or if it did, he didn't let on, indulging the boy at every possible turn, even when the kid asked them both to tell him what they'd like for Christmas as "practice."

Emma had teasingly said, "peace and quiet," and made her hand squawk before gesturing at Killian, like he was always chattering away.

Killian had told him, "a boat and a kiss from a pretty girl," something the boy spent another large portion of the evening trying to convince Emma to give him.

("I bet he thinks _you're_ pretty."

"I'd sooner buy him a boat, kid.")

This, _of course_ , would come back to haunt her at the fifth party of the season.  

&&.

Whatever the fuck _Rumple Minze_ is, she's almost positive she doesn't want to do a shot of it, but the evening's eccentric co-host, a woman named Ruby, isn't taking no for an answer.

"Aw, come on, Mrs. Claus, we picked the 'contemporary' Santas to liven up the party — if I can't convince _you_ to do one, there's no hope for all these stuffy doctors."

"Aren't these 'stuffy doctors' your friends? They're at _your_ party."

" _No_ , they're at my _boyfriend's_ party, and anyway, it's not Victor's fault his coworkers can't surgically remove the sticks from their own butts."

Killian laughs, holding up his phone so they both can see it. "Here, look, Swan, the internet tells me that doing a shot of Rumple Minze is 'exactly what blowing Santa Claus would be like' and I know you —"

She downs the shot and slams the empty glass on a nearby table, confident that wherever that sentence was going to end, this liquid peppermint nightmare was the smarter choice.

"That's the spirit, lady!" Ruby whoops, fluttering off to another corner of the room in a blur of red that nearly rivals the Claus costumes.

"So? How was it?" Killian picks up the empty glass between two fingers, sniffing at it.

"Ah, ah, ah, Santa, you're experiencing this for yourself."

She snags another shot from a passing waiter — they're all dressed like elves and Emma assumes that makes her technically their boss, right?

"What?"

There's already a faint buzz in her veins, making her bolder, but really it's that she's started to get a little thrill out of trying to one up him on the innuendo front.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you're the sort of guy that gets fussy about tasting his own brand."

He flushes around the tips of his ears and she notices for the first time the way they're slightly pointed, filing the info away for some sort of elf joke later as she mentally gives herself a point.

"No," he stammers, and then clears his throat, making a visible effort to recover. "I mean, that'd be poor form, you'd be surprised the things I don't mind on my tongue."

"Prove it," she says, shoving the shot toward him.

He knocks it back effortlessly, smacking his lips.

"Attaboy."

"All right, Swan, let's do the rounds." He extends his elbow and they set off in the direction Ruby had gone.

&&.

They'd only managed another two shots of Rumple Minze before Emma's stomach had started sending up warning signals.

Still, it's been a good night — most of the doctors eventually loosening up in the face of their host's holiday fervor, and, even with the alcoholic cease fire, Emma's feeling warm and reckless, laying it on thick with the physical affection toward her "husband."

Ruby's either noticed and assumed some things about their relationship, or she just flat out doesn't care either way, because the party's winding down when she bounds back over to them, pointing enthusiastically to the mistletoe above their heads.

"You guys have to kiss now!"

Emma glances up, hoping to get out of it on a that's-actually-holly technicality, but it's the real thing, Ruby's already skipped away, and when her gaze drops back down, Killian's staring at her, a challenge written all over his face.

"Please," she says. "You couldn't handle it."

He taps at his lips with his index finger, his entire body simultaneously taunting and enticing her.

"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

She feels a rush of adrenaline, everything in her contracting and expanding at once, like some nervous explosion of alcohol and Christmas and, weirdly, the fact that David and Mary Margaret's "big news" had been a pregnancy, and then she's grabbing Killian by the lapel and shoving her mouth to his.

He recovers almost immediately, leaning into the kiss, his lips working hard and then soft against hers.

She's got her other hand in his hair while he's got one in hers, and she feels more than sees both of their hats flutter to the ground.

There's a brief, tiny break in the kiss, and she should end it, she knows, but instead she goes back one more time, nipping at him, an action he chases with the slightest flash of tongue.

She can't seem to stop herself, pressing her mouth, her _body_ , against his with more force, and Killian, _fuck_ , Killian is giving just as good as he's getting, a hand on her back keeping her in place as they kiss like this isn't work, like they aren't only coworkers, and it's that thought, more than anything, that finally gives her the strength to pull back.

A _little_ — pull back a _little_.

Because they're still absolutely in each other's space, and she can feel his breath when he slurs his way toward a reaction.

"That was —"

"A one time thing," she finishes, nearly contradicting herself in the exact same fucking second as she almost goes back a third time.

"Don't follow me," she says, snatching her hat and turning for literally any part of the party he's not. "Wait five minutes, go entertain a guest or something."

"As you wish."

&&.

The drive home is filled with a lot of weird, stop-started silence that continues through parties six, seven, and eight.

They're in the thick of the Christmas season now, gigs coming not only on the weekends but on random Tuesdays, where she's spent the preceding hours trying to put away the last few bail skips of the year.

Killian, for his part, seems to be making an effort to remain completely normal — it's her that can't keep it up, confused by a low, constant current of all sorts of thoughts.

Like how she didn't mind kissing him.

Like how she wouldn't mind doing it again.

Like how none of that is a possibility, because what if she's wrong about him? What if all of this was just some sort of game to pass the time at work?

(It's not, she _knows_ it's not, but that's the scariest part of all, because she doesn't _do_ any of this anymore.

But...he almost makes her want to.)

By the time the schedule comes out for the last parties of the season, she's resolved to just put her head down, get through it, and find a new job in the new year.

It's always a pain to figure out what to do with tips on her taxes anyway.

Yeah, that's what this is about — _taxes_.

&&.

Christmas Eve and she's going to fucking _scream_.

A black tie party at an obnoxious mansion, snow that's making everyone ooh and ahh about a white Christmas, and Killian blending in effortlessly with high society while she feels graceless and inadequate.

It's the perfect recipe for Mrs. Claus-turned-Scrooge — a mantle she's wearing well.

"Is there a problem, Swan?" Killian whispers, in between posing for pictures with guests against a tasteful holiday background.

That might even be the worst of it — they're stuck in one spot for the night, smiling for the camera in some temporary photobooth set up that probably costs more than her rent.

She considers lying to him, but can't even muster the energy for _that_.

"These people are the worst, Christmas is the worst."

Killian gives her a scrutinizing look, like he's trying to figure out how to play it.

"Aye," he says. "That one's having an affair with his secretary." He points at an older man clinging to the last vestiges of his hair with strategic combing and too much gel.

"What?"

"I think their offices are near the pub, he comes in sometimes with a woman that is decidedly not the one with him now."

"How do you know it's his secretary?"

Killian shrugs. "I don't, but it made for a better story that way, don't you think?"

He grins at her before they're interrupted to take another picture with guests.

When they're done, fake smiles slipping once more from their faces, she turns back to him.

"You can't just make up stories about these people," she says.

"Why, Swan, that's _exactly_ what we can do." He points at a couple lingering near the buffet spread. "Those two haven't had sex in four years."

She squints at the couple, nodding, and the locates a woman in elegant pearls and an elegant dress. " _She_ secretly wants to be a UFC fighter."

"There you go, Swan, now what about this bloke over here near the DJ booth? What's his story?"

"Oh, come on" she says."That's obvious — he can only maintain an erection while the soundtrack to The Lion King is playing."

"Play or movie?"

"Movie, of course."

"Right, right, my mistake."

They continue like that for the better part of two hours, stories getting increasingly outlandish as the party progresses. She's actually enjoying herself, it's definitely the best Christmas Eve she's had in years, which is why it shouldn't surprise her when it all comes crashing down.

There's a girl at the top of the stairs, a little blonde kid in Christmas pajamas clutching a doll.

As soon as their hosts spot her, they're both up the stairs and kneeling at her side on the landing, elegant clothing be damned.

Emma watches as they scoop her up and bring her down, introducing her to guests on the way toward...oh, god, on the way toward _them_.

"Hannah, this is —"

The little girl — Hannah, apparently — cuts her dad off. "I know who they are — they're Santa's _friends_."

"Oh, uh," the dad says. Tom? Was that his name?

Killian jumps in with a smile, crouching down to speak to her and leaving Emma no choice but to do the same, even if it's awkward as hell in her dress. "Right you are, little lass. What can we do for you?"

"I just wanted to make sure Santa got my update — it's the _purple_ house that Matilda wants," she says, holding up the doll. " _Not_ the green one like I wrote in my letter."

"Ah, er..." Killian glances up at the parents over Hannah's head and they both nod encouragingly, the mom giving a little thumbs up.

"You know what, Hannah? I think he did get that update."

Hannah looks satisfied. "Okay, good." She turns to leave and then quickly pivots back, her socks sliding on the tile. "Um, actually do you know if he heard about the swords, too? I want two of them now."

Killian looks up again, stealthily, and this time Tom is shaking his head, holding up his index finger.

"Well, I'm sorry to say — I think he's just got the one, but any worthy opponent would have a sword of his own."

He looks to Emma for support and she feels frozen, it's been a month of this now, domesticity and Christmas and it suddenly all feels ill-fitting again.

"Um, yeah. That's right," she manages and Hannah nods.

"Okay, honey, that's enough," Hannah's mom — Amy? Is it Amy? When did she get so bad with names? — says. "You _really_ do have to go to sleep this time. Do you want me to run you up or your dad?"

"Dad."

Tom scoops her up and gives the rest of them a little shrug, like, _kids, what can you do?_ and then he's off.

Amy grins after them before turning back to Killian and Emma. "We're trying not to be too hard on her, she's so into it this year. You remember what that's like, right?"

Killian grins, all charm and ease. "Aye, I think I was after a sword one year myself."

They're interrupted by an older woman who's been by the booth a few times and wants yet _another_ picture — with Killian only this time, but Emma's feeling so out of sorts she can't even muster up a smirk.

This is it, this is the _last_ party.

She can do this.

(It's really hard.)

&&.

It's almost 11 o'clock by the time they finally get to leave and the earlier snow is still dumping down in a steady stream of white.

By the look of the roads, it's been going like this for the entire party, a fat, fluffy blanket glittering in the street lamps.

She's never been so grateful for the stupid company car — it may have been adorned with tacky antlers and a big red nose on the front for the holidays, but it's an SUV and far more equipped for this kind of weather than her Bug.

Killian tosses his hat in the back and slips into to the driver's seat presumably more out of habit than anything — they've determined she can drive in this costume, better than any of the princess gowns, at least, but rather than fight him, she hunkers down into the leather of the passenger side and waits for the seat warmers to kick in.

He maneuvers them on to the road in silence, the noise of the party still ringing in her ears.

The both of them smell faintly of cinnamon and peppermint, and as they drive by the Christmas lights adorning many of the buildings, she finds herself finally relaxing back into the holiday spirit — enough that she fiddles with the radio until she finds a station playing nonstop Christmas music.

"There's the Mrs. Claus I married," Killian says, tone as cautious as the way he's making a right turn.

She hadn't been sure if he'd bring it up, her whole bah-humbug, roller-coaster attitude this evening, and she sure as hell wasn't going to, but now that it's out there, she finds herself grateful for the chance to explain, to _apologize_.

"Yeah, I, uh. I'm sorry about that."

"It's all right, love. Our schedule lately has been more than enough Christmas for anyone."

"No," she says, fiddling with the edge of her skirt, fingers brushing the fishnet of her stockings. "It wasn't that, it was..."

She trails off, both of them listening to Bing Crosby sing about chestnuts roasting over an open fire.

"Swan?"

"I just — I never had that, you know? The family and the parties and the anticipation of Christmas morning, not being able to fall asleep...just. God, none of it."

Killian's hands flex on the wheel, and that, if anything, is a sign of the current state of the roads — he's almost always got one free, drumming on his thigh or tapping on the gear shift.

"I'm sorry, Emma," he says, and she takes a second to marvel that they're even having this conversation at all.

Killian's been around — well, he's been around kind of a while now, and she never disliked him nearly as much as she put on, but this past month, it's like it's been ratcheted up a whole other level.

"It's fine. I've tried, you know. As I've gotten older, bought a little fake tree one year after a break up, but I didn't even manage to get that fucking thing up this year."

"Aye, work's been...well, work."

"Yeah," she says, going back to watching the lights and the snow slip by as they drive, these little snatches of serious conversation almost more draining than the smiling and nodding she'd had to do all evening.

"There were a couple years after, um. Ah, I guess you could call it a break up. Getting left is what it really was," he scoffs out a laugh. "But I couldn't be arsed at all, not for any of it."

She turns back to look at him, they're stopped at a traffic light, one of his hands off the wheel this time and rubbing at his forearm — the tattoo there — through the gaudy red velvet of his costume.

It's not a surprise, the story of that tattoo, and she mentally slots the last few pieces of it into place, the way he is around married women, this last bit about getting left, it all makes sense.

"Ah," she says. "What changed?"

He shrugs. "Liam, mostly. Dragged me out of England, told me he needed my help in the pub one Christmas. He didn't, not really, but I just never left. And it's better now."

"Plans for the big day tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, I normally go over for some food, do presents, watch Christmas Vacation, nothing fancy." He scratches behind his ear. "Usually one of us ends up drunk on egg nog, making a speech about brotherhood."

She laughs, picturing Killian in that story far more easily than Liam.  

"...it's usually me," he confirms.

"I figured."

"And what about you, Swan? Big plans?"

Underneath her, the seat warmer is finally going full blast, making her whole body feel hot, and she shifts against it.

"Um, Mary Margaret invited me over to hang out with her and David."

"You don't sound sold."

She grabs the stupid hat from her head, twisting it in her fingers before jamming it into the pocket of her coat. "I don't know, I'm sure it'll be nice, but — they just found out they're gonna be _parents_ , they should enjoy this Christmas as a family, the next one'll be different."

"I'm sure they consider you a part of that family, Emma."

"Yeah, I guess — it's just, I don't know," she says again. "We'll see, maybe I'll crash your Christmas Vacation-a-thon. I always liked that movie, even when I wasn't feeling very festive."

She'd meant it teasingly, but she can see from the way Killian looks at her that he's about to encourage it.

"You're welcome to. Please do, in fact."

"I was just kidding, I don't want to watch you cry and hug your brother."

"I don't _cry_ — I just...appreciate him."

"You should," she tells him, and it comes out more serious than she'd intended. God, what is _with_ her tonight? This goddamn holiday has her all twisted up. It always does.

"Yeah," he confirms. "Listen, Swan —"

She cuts him off, pointing at a turn. "This is me," she says. "You can just drop me in front of the building."

"That'll not be happening. Poor form to let you out like that in this weather."

"Good luck finding a spot," she scoffs.

And then, like some fucking Christmas miracle, one appears almost right in front of them, the most coveted spot for her entire building, empty, on Christmas Eve of all days.

He maneuvers into it and cuts the engine, smirking at her. "Seems I've got old Saint Nick on my side tonight."

She rolls her eyes and hops out of the car, her booties sinking into snow that's even deeper than she would've guessed.

"Yeah? Well, you're gonna need his reindeers to pull this thing out of here if you don't go, like, _right now_." She taps the hood of the car and eases herself up the curb.

"A risk I'm willing to take," he says, shuffling to join her on the sidewalk and extending his elbow. "Now come on, allow me to escort you to your door, Mrs. Claus."

The heels of her shoes are precarious enough on normal streets, and the snow's gonna make it about a thousand times tougher, so she accepts his arm and allows him to help her toddle into the building.

When they reach the elevators, she releases him, pressing the button to call it to the ground floor.

"All right, well, thanks," she says, jabbing at the button a few more times for good measure. She doesn't _really_ want him to go, it's Christmas Eve and she's...sort of...lonely.

But she obviously can't tell _him_ that.

"Now, Swan, do you really think I'd leave you _here_? Without even checking your fireplace to make sure I can get back in safely later?"

"Um, I live on the eleventh floor of a twenty-story building — I don't have a fireplace. Incidentally, you're also not _actually_ Santa Claus."

He gasps. "Bite your tongue, don't let the elves hear you talking like that, they'll mutiny."

The elevator arrives and she doesn't stop him when he moves to board it alongside her, pressing the button for her floor.

"Mutiny? Isn't that just for ships?"

"I believe it applies to all soldiers, lass, but who knows, maybe I've moved the North Pole to a ship. Make the switch between Santa and Hook that much easier."

"That seems inefficient."

He winks. "It's a big ship."

They exit the elevator, making their way down the hall to her door.

"Sounds like you're compensating for something then," she says.

"Oh, I assure you, I have _nothing_ to compensate for."

She keys into her apartment, swinging the door open wide to show the dark space.

"See?" she says. "Not a creature stirring, not even a mouse."

He brushes by her, peering around the room when she flips the light on.

"Yeah, and not a single ounce of holiday cheer either."

She bristles at that. "I literally _just_ told you — no time this year."

"And no time like the present, now where's that tree?"

" _What_?"

"The little tree you referenced, packed away somewhere, I assume? Let's get it set up."

"Jones — _Killian_ — Christmas is _tomorrow_."

"All the more reason to get it done now."

"Real quick, just to save us both some time, is this gonna be a thing I can talk you out of or no?"

He sighs and shakes his head regretfully, like it's out of his hands. "I just don't think so, Swan."

"Fine, I'll get the damn tree," she says. "Make yourself useful — put together drinks or something."

She splits from him, walking toward the hallway and her small storage space, while he moves to the kitchen.

Her bedroom door is open and she can see the clock on the nightstand glowing red — 11:26. Nearly Christmas. And technically — _technically_ — she's going to have someone here, with her, when it comes.

Ho, ho, ho.

&&.

It takes nearly an hour to get the tree up, the lights untangled, and the ornaments placed on the branches in a way that's (mostly) structurally sound.

She'd changed into sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt halfway through the proceedings, her thickest socks and her most comfortable bra rounding out what's sure to be a super sexy and alluring ensemble.

Right.

But it is...cozy, sort of.

Killian's stripped off the red velvet blazer, his tie and black button-down draped over her armchair along with it.

It leaves him in just a black v-neck undershirt and the tight ( _tight_ ) black pants of his costume. His socks, which she hadn't noticed at any of their previous gigs, are adorned with little candy canes.

When he collapses next to her on the couch and props his feet up by hers on the coffee table, she nudges his foot with her toe.

"Those Regina-issue?"

He laughs. "Gag gift from Liam on my official Santa Claus appointment, actually."

"I like 'em."

"Yeah? I like these," he says, pinching the fabric of her sweatpants between his fingers. "I didn't realize Adidas had secured the official Mrs. Claus sponsorship endorsement. I hope they gave you a nice check."

She snorts. "Ha, yeah, it's a great deal, I give them money at a store and they give me clothes."

"Well done, love."

She nudges him with her elbow. "You're an idiot."

"That may be so, but I'm an idiot who thinks we ought to give this tree a real chance to shine. Close your eyes, I'm gonna turn the overhead lights off."

"Killian, seriously, it looks fine like this."

"Ah, come on, indulge a jolly old man."

"Fine."

She closes her eyes, resting her palms on top of them for good measure as she feels him clamber off the couch.

There's the faint click of a few switches and then he's sitting back down next to her, closer than before.

"Okay, open them," he says, gripping her wrists to pull her hands from her eyes, and, god, his voice is so low and he's so _close_ and —

The tree is _beautiful_ , spots of light in every color burning bright and festive, casting the room in a little holiday cocoon.

"Wow," she says, the word coming out on a breath.

"Right?"

His hands are still gripping her wrists — circling them entirely, his fingers overlapping, and, _god_ , why is that so _hot_? — and he squeezes them lightly before he lets go, hunkering down next to her on the couch.

There's plenty of room on the other cushions, and her apartment isn't even that cold, they'd kicked the space heater on pretty early in the decorating, but she doesn't mind it at all, the way he's bundled up right next to her.

He shuffles down a bit, both of them shifting until they're still pressed up against each other, but this time facing right at the tree.

"Thanks for making me do this," she says.

"You're welcome, Swan." The words are a low rumble and she feels the vibration of them through his body and into hers.

There's still the faint scent of peppermint and cinnamon clinging to them, and beneath that, the rum he'd spiked their hot chocolate with, all of it adding to the warmth of the room, the feeling of Christmas all around them.

They watch the tree in silence for a few long moments, she can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen, the sound of the occasional car passing by down below outside.

"I, um," Killian finally says, breaking off to clear his throat. "I found this in with the decorations." He shifts to be able to get in his pocket, pulling out a rumpled plastic bouquet of mistletoe. "Wasn't sure if you'd want to put it out, too."

She takes it from him, considering it, twirling the stem between her fingertips.

"I don't know," she says carefully. "Do you think we need it this time?"

He covers her hand with his own, bringing them both down to rest in her lap, the mistletoe pressed between her palm and thigh.

"You tell me," he says, tone low and rumbling and, fuck, really, _really_ tempting.

She thinks of the last time — the _only_ time — they'd kissed, the rush of it, all frantic and hard with the noise of the party in the background, and it's not that she doesn't want to kiss him again, she just...wants it different this time.

"I don't think we do," she finally says, slipping her hand out from under his to toss the mistletoe on the table.

"Swan..."

"You put up a tree for me," she says, and it seems silly, it seems like such a small thing, but it...god, it actually meant a lot. Him being here, right now, _means_ a lot.

"Aye," he says.

And that's it, she leans in, slowly, clear in her intent, and he meets her halfway, their mouths touching lightly as they both angle their heads, adjusting to their position.

His hand moves from her lap to tangle in her hair, his thumb brushing at her temple, over the shell of her ear, as she shifts closer and opens her mouth wider.

He works his lips against hers slowly, fitting them together over and over before she finally slips her tongue out, briefly, trying to tempt him into doing the same.

It's a hint he picks up on, his tongue stroking into her mouth, wet and warm as it glides against hers.

She shuffles into him more, unable to find a position where she's pressed close enough, until she finally climbs into his lap, straddling him as his hands move to her hips.

He clutches her there, still kissing her, deep and hot and perfect, tiny gaps in the kiss where they each suck in air before going right back for more.

He skates his hands up and over her waist to her back before venturing down lower, palming her butt, using his grip to edge her closer, until she's pressed up against his erection.

There's a weird excess of fabric tenting over her crotch, the product, presumably, of buying men's sweatpants, and she's growing increasingly frustrated, trying to get him where she wants him, only to be thwarted by cotton and elastic.

His fingers edge down under the waistband of her pants, snapping it lightly against her skin.

"You could take them off," he murmurs, kissing his way down her neck, all tongue and teeth and hot, wet sucks.

It's a good idea, a tempting one, but right now, the thought of climbing off of him, even to do something as productive as removing her pants, seems counterintuitive, and instead she rocks back on his thighs, crossing her arms to grab the hem of her shirt and tug it up and over her head.

It lands someplace behind the couch, she doesn't bother to look, eyes locked on the way he's staring at her breasts.

"That, uh, that also works," he says, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his hands rise to cup her through her bra.

He skates his thumbs over the line between satin and skin, following the edges of the cups to the straps before tracing those back behind her.

When he gets to the clasp, he hesitates, fingers dancing underneath it.

"This, too?"

"If you want." She shrugs lightly, like she's not already burning at the thought of his mouth on her breast, his stubble scratching against the skin there.

"Oh, Swan, I want very much."

"Do it then."

He doesn't hesitate, popping open the clasp without a single stumble, and flinging her bra in the vague direction of the tree behind her.

His hands rise to cup her once more, only this time, his thumbs brush her nipples as he tests the weight of her in his palms.

"Jesus, you're perfect," he breathes, and she wants to demure or protest or tease him, but instead she _groans_ , because he's wasted no time in fulfilling that seconds-ago fantasy of his mouth on her breasts.

He sucks lightly on a nipple, hand mimicking the action on her other breast as best it can, making her writhe in his lap as he works his tongue against her, too.

There's always the learning period with someone new, waiting for them to figure out what you like, or, if you're lucky, noticing when you try to steer them a particular way, and Killian, _god_ , Killian catches on quick, responding to the way her hand moves to his hair, pressing him harder against her like he's a fucking _scholar_ of taking hints.  

He switches his mouth to the breast he'd been squeezing, ratcheting up his efforts, everything building toward something she's not gonna get with her goddamn pants still on.

"Oh, god, okay, okay, let me just —" She shifts backward, awkwardly dropping her feet to the floor and shimmying out of her pants and socks.

Before she can sit back down, he's bracketing her waist with his hands, keeping her standing while he still sits, his thumbs running the ridge of her hipbones as he presses a line of kisses across her stomach.

He noses under the elastic of her underwear — red and green striped cotton, her only remaining concession to her earlier costume.

She grips at his shoulders, having a hard time keeping her balance even with both feet on the ground, and she's frustrated to feel the soft fabric of his undershirt bunching in her fingers.

Pinching at the collar of it, she gives a little tug, urging him to strip it off.

He doesn't even pause, pressing his face to her stomach and shaking his head until she cups his face and gently pries him away.

"Come on, I wanna see, too," she tells him, repeating the tug on his collar.

"Fine, fine," he says, distracted once more by her breasts. "But it's nothing like yours — like _these_." He licks around a nipple before latching on again.

She huffs out a laugh, leaning down a bit until she can get her fingers around the bottom hem of his shirt and begin drawing it up his back.

He pulls back only long enough to wrench it over his head, leaving his hair in even further disarray than what she's already done to it with her hands.

Looking up at her, he presses kisses everywhere his mouth can reach, as she runs her hands over his skin where _she_ can reach.

"Do you wanna — the bedroom?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "It's not very Christmas-y in there."

He nips at her hipbone, starting to respond to her before clearly thinking better of it and working a mark into her skin instead.

When he's through, he tries again. "I'm Santa Claus, love, I can make it plenty Christmas-y anywhere you'd like."

His hand has slipped between her legs, pressing against the damp cotton of her underwear.

"Even in here," he says, working his fingers into her through the fabric.

"Gonna show me your North Pole?" she teases and he pulls back, shocked.

"Oh, come on, Swan, that was bad even for _me_."

She shrugs impishly. "Well? Are you?"

"That depends, love — were you on the naughty or nice list this year?"

"What do you think?" she asks and reaches up to cup her breasts, squeezing them as he watches on hungrily.

"I think," he says, placing his hands over hers, following her movements, "that you have been very, _very_ naughty."

"Too late to switch now then," she says, pushing her underwear to the ground before tugging him up to stand in front of her. "Better just embrace it."

Her fingers move to his belt, undoing it and his pants in a few quick steps that could've been much sexier if she weren't feeling so fucking _needy_.

He helps her along, shoving his pants and boxer briefs down with only the slightest bit of fussing to get them past his cock.

Then he's stepping out of them, leaning down with enviable grace to tug his socks off, too.

She can't wait any longer, raising up on her toes to kiss him once more, the slide of their mouths wet and hot as she presses her bare skin against his.

The wiry feeling of his chest hair tickles her breasts every time she moves and she chases the feeling, rubbing up against him in a way that traps his cock between them, pinned up against her lower stomach.

She slips her hand down to run her thumb against the moisture leaking from the tip, spreading it over the silky skin as he groans, tipping his forehead to hers as his eyes fall shut.

"Fuck," he breathes, and she gives herself more space to work, shifting back until she can get her hand around the length of him.

He allows her only a few firm strokes and then he grips her wrist, moving her hand from his erection and taking a step away.

"What?" she asks, her voice breathy.

He darts around her, a blur of skin and dark hair, and grabs her armchair from its spot, pulling it closer to the Christmas tree.

"C'mere," he says, gesturing toward the chair.

She feels a little silly, but does as he asks, stepping out of her underwear where it's pooled on the ground before ( _attempting to_ ) saunter to her seat.

She perches on the edge of the chair and he kneels down in front of her, nudging her more firmly on the cushion.

"Go on." He nods toward the back of the chair and and then settles on his heels, like he's taking her all in, and when she glances down, the lights from the tree are painting her skin in faint spots of color.

"Perfect," he says, hands pressing on her knees to spread her legs.

"Oh my god."

Then he's leaning in, dropping kisses up the inside of her thigh while she fights to keep still.

"Look at this," he says, dragging a finger through her folds. "All messy and wet." He brings his finger up, still damp, and rings one of her nipples. "Are you going to ruin this pretty chair?"

She arches her hips, trying to get him to do _something_ , bring that finger back, use his mouth, fuck, _anything_.

"Well, are you?"

She makes a noise that could be a yes, but could also just be a plea, and his hands spread her legs even wider.

"I think you are," he says, thumbs edging below her hips. "I think you're never going to be able to sit in this chair again without thinking about this — the least I can do is try and keep it clean."

He leans forward to lick at her clit, soft, little swipes that barely feel like anything.

She sinks lower in the chair until she's pressed right up against his face, hands gripping the tops of her thighs as she waits to see if he'll pull back.

He doesn't — instead his tongue dips lower, pressing inside of her slowly while his thumb moves to her clit.

The rhythm he sets is maddening, a lazy, relaxed thing that's at complete odds with the need burning low in her stomach.

Her hands move to grip his hair, tightening in the soft strands as she arches against him once more.

He picks up the pace in tiny, frustrating increments, working her higher, tonguing her deeper, but slowly, so fucking _slowly_.

"C'mon," she breathes, and his eyes snap to hers over the expanse of her stomach, the swell of her breasts.

"What was that?" he mumbles, barely lifting his mouth from her entrance. "Things not to your liking?"

She whines — she can't help it, she just _whines_ , she could be so close, she could be _there_ , and instead he's dragging it out.

"Tell me what you need then," he says, thumb circling her clit.

"Switch 'em," she says, hips flexing again.

"What?"

"Your tongue and your fingers, _switch them_."

He leans back a bit, expression absolutely filthy. "Oh, I see, you want something  _bigger_ inside of you, is that it?"

She lets her head fall to the back of the chair, the rest of her body tense as she nods, hair catching on the upholstery.

"As you wish, Swan." He brings his arm down and then he's pushing a finger into her, mouth shifting up to her clit.

She's got something to work against now, something harder than his tongue to ride, and she takes advantage, setting the rhythm she wants and half-expecting him to back off again.

He doesn't, thank fucking _god_ , he doesn't, he keeps everything firm and steady, a second finger joining the first as she starts to pant and plead above him.

There's other noises, too, these ones from him, indulgent and thick where he's moaning against her, looking so fucking into it that she fights to keep her eyes open just to watch.

She succeeds for a little bit, taking in the sight of him between her legs, reveling in it as her hands clutch at his hair, skirt his ears, but it doesn't last, _can't_ last, her body tensing as she climbs closer and closer.

His encouragement is getting louder, more emphatic, muffled sounds that only cut off when he buries his fingers in her, deep and thick, as his tongue taps a frantic rhythm against her clit that matches her breathing.

"Fuck, god, _Jesus_ , yeah, like that, exactly...fucking...like... _that_ ," and then she's groaning, she's _coming_ , stuttered noises and arched back and tense limbs, and he stretches the feeling out, his tongue and fingers pulling every last bit of feeling from her until she collapses back against the chair.

He peers up at her, hair falling over his forehead, expression smug, and then he wipes his mouth in a hard kiss against the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

"Merry Christmas, Jesus Christ," she breathes.

"Indeed, Swan."

He pushes himself up off the ground with his hands on the armrests until he's looming over her, face close to hers.

"Not afraid to taste your own brand, are you?" he teases, bumping his nose against her own.

She sends out a mental inventory, finding her hands at the end of her arms and using them to pull him down more, pressing her lips against his.

He deepens the kiss immediately, his tongue sweeping into her mouth in a confident stroke, wet and warm and, yep, definitely tasting of _her_.

She can't fuck him in this chair, not like she wants to, and she nudges him back, standing without any clear agenda except to find a place where he can be on top of her.

There's the floor, of course, and that'd keep them right by the tree, but if he fucks like she can now admit she's imagined, she might end up with a concussion, so instead she makes the short walk back to the couch, fingers tangling with his to bring him along.

She catches sight of her coat near the door, thrown over the little bench there, and she can see the pom-pom of her hat sticking out of the pocket.

It gives her an idea.

"Sit down and close your eyes," she says before she can think better of it.

He raises an eyebrow, but does as she asks, tossing a few of the throw pillows from her couch on to the coffee table, clearly anticipating needing the room.

As quick as she can manage, she's rummaging in her coat and positioning the Santa hat with the help of her reflection in a picture frame.

She starts back toward him, but nearly trips on the booties of her costume where they sit by the door.

Figuring it's a sign, she slips those on, too, careful to keep them from clacking on the floor as she tiptoes her way back to Killian.

"All right," she says. "Open 'em."

She's nearly certain the sexy picture she has in her brain of how she must look — naked save for a Santa hat and black heeled boots — can't possibly be the reality, but the stunned look he gives her does wonders for her ego.

"Fuck," he says, all low and rumbling. "You are a _vision_ , Swan."

"Yeah?" she says, shifting her weight a little, trying to project confidence and squash the urge to cover herself.

"A stunning, sexy, Santa-y vision."

" _Santa-y_?"

He raises his arm, gesturing for her to come closer.

"Aye, you're about to be a lot more Santa-y, full of him, I'd wager."

"He's gonna slide down my chimney?"

"Emma Swan — Christmas-flavored dirty talk? There's no _way_ I was a good enough boy to deserve you as a present this year."

She attempts to raise an eyebrow in imitation of him. "Maybe you're _my_ present."

"Well, you _did_ unwrap me."

"Oh!"

"That made you think of condoms, didn't it?"

She laughs. "Yeah, actually."

"See? We're so in sync, love. I don't know why you resisted my charms for so long."

"Oh, those were charms, were they?"

"Indeed."

"Well, I'm not resisting now."

His face softens, slips into something much different than the cocky, smirking guy she's used to. "You're not, are you?" he asks, and it's rhetorical and almost...awed, like he can't even believe it himself.

It makes her feel wanted, appreciated, maybe even loved, or, at least, something that could build to it.

If she let it.

And, god, does she want to.

For now though, it's enough that she stood bare-ass naked in front of him and had a conversation — she can't quite remember ever doing that before.

"I'm just gonna —" She gestures down the hall, toward her bedroom. "The condoms."

He nods, sweeping a hand out. "Please, proceed."

She makes her way down the wall, heels clacking loudly on the floor, which must be how she misses the sound of him moving to catch up to her.

When she flips on the light and moves toward her nightstand, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare  chest and cock half-hard.

"Something wrong with that?" He nods toward her bed.

"No, why?"

He shrugs, still the picture of casual sexuality.

(She doesn't recall ever seeing an issue of Playgirl, but if they know anything about running a magazine for people attracted to men, this sort of thing is _absolutely_ centerfold material.)

"Just seems a shame to go back out to that much smaller couch when we have _this_ at our disposal," he says.

"Tree's out there."

"You're wearing a Santa hat — I'll let it slide if you will."

She pretends to consider it, tipping her head to the side and tapping a finger against her chin.

"I'll make it worth your while," he adds.

"Oh, all right, but don't say I've never done anything for you."

She kicks off her shoes and hops onto the bed, propping herself up on her hands as he walks to the nightstand and finishes the job she'd abandoned of getting the condoms out.

When he drops a couple next to her alarm clock and turns to face her, it puts his erection — back full force now — at such a perfect height, really, genuinely, made-for this-sort-of-thing kind of height and she quickly flips to lay on her stomach, perpendicular to the headboard.

"Swan?"

In response, she grips the base of his cock, holding it steady as she licks delicately at the tip.

" _Oh_ , okay," he breathes out, voice thready and high.

She shifts closer, bringing more of her mouth around him in slow, bobbing increments until her lips meet her hand and she starts into a deeper rhythm.

In response, his fingers twine in the hair tucked behind her ear and she can feel his thumb keeping her hat in place as she moves.

It's a weird angle to try and look up at him, but she gives it her best shot, and it's _so_ worth it, because he looks incredible — slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, his hair a mess.

She wants the noises to match the look though, and shifts her hand until she can cup his balls, swipe a finger at the sensitive skin behind them as she takes him as far as she can.

He lets out a grunt, a broken sound that shudders on delivery, and she keeps it up, trying every trick she can remember and gauging his reaction to each.

The light — _light_ — brush of her teeth makes him groan.

Tonguing the vein that runs the length of him only gets a deep breath.

Shifting up on her elbow so he can get at a breast earns a deep, pleased noise.

Moaning around him gets nearly the same sound back in echo.

And shifting her legs on the comforter when it all gets to be too much for her, too, gets him talking again.

"Yeah, that's it, love, just like that, _fuck_." He knocks the hat from her head, gathering up her hair into a loose fist as he helps guide her into the pace he likes.

She follows along, stringing it all together, and soon he's mumbling above her, increasingly needy words that she keeps chasing until he's easing back from her and nudging her back toward the pillows.

"You could've finished like that, you know."

He laughs, climbing on top of her and settling between her legs. "Yeah, I bloody well could've, that was — you're quite good at that."

She can't help it, she preens a little bit.

"Wanna see what _I'm_ good at?" He shifts so his cock is nestled against her, flexing his hips in a way that drags it with the perfect amount of friction against her clit.  

She pulls his head down, bringing his weight more fully on top of her as they kiss and rut against each other like teenagers.

His fingers slip between her legs, replacing his cock, and he pushes one into her, pumping it slowly.

"Are you ready, Swan? It feels like you're ready," he says. "But I want to hear it."

"Yeah, _yes_." She's grinding down on his finger, panting the words in between nips at his neck, the place where it meets his shoulder.

He slides his finger away and lifts up, reaching for a condom that she considers helping him with until she remembers the way he'd sounded when she'd shifted on the bed earlier, the way he'd watched as she'd played with her breasts in the living room.

Following a hunch, she slips a hand down her body until she's pushing two fingers into herself, her free hand cupping her breast, and when he notices, it's exactly what she'd been hoping for.

"Christ," he says, eyes fixed on the hand between her legs.

"Get that on and you can help," she says, nodding to the condom still in his hand.  

He rips it open, delaying another few seconds to watch her finger herself before he focuses, rolling it down his shaft and nudging her hand out of the way to position himself at her entrance.

He pushes into her slowly, his forearms bracketing her head as he watches her reaction.

"Fuck," she hisses, hands scrambling to cup his ass, pull him into her more fully.

He groans when she does it, forehead dropping to hers briefly before he pulls his hips back again, beginning to fuck her slow and steady.

She lets him have his way for as long as she can stand it, trying to sit back and enjoy the ride, or being ridden, or _whatever_ , but now that they're finally here, after what seems like literally centuries of innuendo, she wants it hard and she wants it now.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she arches up into him, meeting him thrust for thrust, urging him on. "Harder, _fuck_ , harder."

"God, yes," he agrees, and _finally_ , he's off, hips snapping against her as his hand snags her wrist, pinning it to the mattress.

She's so close, she's lost track of her words, everything spilling out of her in pants and pleas, and when Killian goes tense above her, his cock buried to the hilt and a grunt tumbling from his lips, she falls, wrapping her limbs tight around him as his teeth work against her shoulder.

The moment stretches out, hiccuping little aftershocks tingling through her veins for what seems like minutes, until she finally settles, unwrapping her limbs and allowing him to roll away onto his back beside her.

She looks over at him, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling, and nudges him with her foot.

"Hey," she says. "Good form."

He laughs, his eyes staying closed, but the corners of them crinkling with his smile. "You, too, Swan."

His hand gropes for hers on the comforter, twining their fingers.

"You gonna kick me out?"

"Yeah, get up, no room at the inn."

His eyes snap open at that, body tensing.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, no, it's fine, I was just making a joke, like, you know,  _Jesus_."

He turns his head to look at her, eyebrow raised. "Gonna make me sleep in a manger?"

She pretends to consider it. "Ah, wouldn't you know it — I'm having my manger restained, guess you're stuck here."

"Terrific — you should know though, Swan, if we're visited by three wise men in the middle of the night, I'm not going to take to that too kindly."

"Oh, shit, I've gotta make a call then."

&&.

She is being smothered.

It's warm — _broiling_ — in her room and someone is trying to kill her.

Her eyes fly open, limbs lashing out at whatever they can reach as she scrambles from the bed, her heart pounding and adrenaline racing through her veins.

Whoever it is, she's gonna fucking _kill_ them, she's gonna punch and kick and where is her _taser_ , she's not going down without a —

"What the fuck!" Killian shouts, and oh.

Oh.

It's _Killian_.

Probably not trying to murder her.

"Oh my god, oh my god, I'm so sorry," she says, and crawls back onto the bed, running a soothing hand over where he's clutching his stomach and his jaw simultaneously.

His face grimaces in pain, but he's trying to fight it off, waving a hand at her.

"Happy Christmas to you, too, Swan, fucking hell."

"I'm, _Jesus_ , Killian, I'm really sorry —"

"It's fine," he says, taking a few deep breaths. "I think it was more just shock than anything."

"Uh. Yeah, me, too actually." She tries to look sheepish.

"Cuddling not a regular occurrence in your life then?"

"No."

He shifts his jaw from side to side and then climbs out of bed, reaching down to help her up, too.  

"All right, that's sorted. What about breakfast? Breakfast a regular occurrence in your life?"

She looks at him, rumpled and bare-chested, wearing only her sweatpants from the night before, and considers his question.

Any morning-after weirdness she'd typically be feeling is overridden, or at least mitigated, by the fact that she'd assaulted him.

So, she shrugs. "What the hell, why not, you've already gotten in my pants."

"Figuratively and literally, Swan. Best Christmas ever."

"Yeah, yeah, Santa Claus, you're saying that now, you haven't seen the state of my pantry."

(They eat Pop-Tarts and hot chocolate.

It's...pretty great.)

&&.

Killian's phone rings just as they're settling down to watch part of the Christmas Story marathon that's always on this time of year, and she can see on the screen that it's Liam, immediately feeling guilty and weird.

"Oh shit, were you supposed to be over there already?"

Killian waves her off, answering the phone. "It's okay, it's all right — Hello?"

She can hear the muffled voice of Liam on the other end before Killian speaks again.

"Well, that _would_ be fine...except I'm not at home."

Emma's eyes widen and he places a hand on her knee, rubbing it reassuringly as he shakes his head.

"No, I'm not already on my way to yours."

More muffled noise for the phone.

"Where am I? Uh. That _is_ the question, isn't it?"

He looks to Emma and raises his eyebrows, an unspoken _can I tell him?_ hanging in the air.

She blows out a breath and shrugs. "I guess, whatever."

He grins. "I'm actually at Emma's."

The noise of Liam's voice escalates and when it dies down, she can make out the last part crystal clear: "Invite her."

"I may have already done that last night, brother. She hasn't given me an answer."

He looks to Emma, all puppy dog pleading and big, pouty lip.

"Fine, I'll go," she huffs, but it's undermined by the smile pulling at her lips.

"She'll come," Killian crows. "We'll be round shortly."

He hangs up the phone and practically beams at her.

"All right, all right, let me go get ready."

&&.

The snow had stopped sometime late last night and together with whatever poor plow driver had to work, it's made the roads manageable, if not a little bit precarious, even in the company SUV.

Still, they make it to Liam's mostly unscathed — Killian had put his _freezing_ hand on the back of her neck at a traffic light and she's a little bit traumatized, but she doesn't retaliate, figuring it sort of makes up for pummeling him earlier.

Which, naturally, is the first thing out of Killian's mouth when Liam opens the door before they can even knock.

"Don't startle her like that, she'll deck you."

He skips off to shower and change into the spare clothes he apparently keeps here, leaving Emma standing awkwardly in Liam's living room.

"Uh, you have a nice place," she says, searching — just the tiniest bit — for any young, embarrassing photos of Killian that may be serving as decoration.  

"I do," Liam confirms. "I have a nice brother as well, it's about time you noticed."

"Better late than never?" Emma says, because it's easier than admitting she'd noticed before, had all the pieces and parts — nice guy, handsome guy, smart guy, innuendo guy — and was just too afraid to look at what they made when you put them all together.

"Aye," Liam says. "I'll give you a bit to get with comfortable with it — we can pencil in asking after your intentions for the new year."

And this, if anything, should send her running.

Not the idea of her intentions — god knows her romantic life has never, _ever_ bowed to her _intentions_ — but the idea that this is still going to be a _thing_ in the new year, even if it's only six days away.

But surprisingly, the place the panic _is_ coming from is the idea that this _won't_ be a thing in the new year — that they'll go back to antagonistic coworkers and bantering friends and she doesn't want that.

She just really, really doesn't.

Whatever's going on with Killian, it's different. She's got enough experience with her typical emotions after sleeping with somebody once — they're usually of the ' _run_ , run right fucking _now_ ' variety, and that's not what she's feeling with him.

So, she tells Liam.

"You don't have to wait," she says. "My intentions are...good, I think. I don't want to jerk him around, if that's what you're implying."

She hears feet on the floor behind her and Liam is still in front of her.

"Me, neither, Emma," Killian says, and when she turns, he's standing there, still dressed in his clothes from earlier, but with a towel in his hands, like he got waylaid en route to the bathroom.

Liam quietly excuses himself to the kitchen, and, fuck, they're going to have this conversation _now_?

"I don't want to 'jerk you around' either, as you so eloquently put it," he continues. "I will admit — it took a bit longer than I expected to win your heart, but...I think I might be on my way?"

He scratches behind his ear, ducking his head a bit as he waits for her to speak.

"This...uh. God, I'm _really_ bad at this."

"You're doing just fine, Swan." He takes a step closer, laying the towel over a chair.

"I don't want you to think this is all, like, brand new for me, okay? I'm not one of those people that fucks somebody once and then gets overly attached. I think I've kind of known for a while, I —"

"To be clear — right now, you're...what? Explaining to a bloke that wants you to have feelings for him why he shouldn't be concerned that you have feelings for him?"

He looks about a second away from laughing, and she chases after it, desperate to get to the ground she's grown used to with him.

" _Feelings_ , Killian, really? We have _feelings_ for each other? Are they _touchy_ -feelings?"

"Oh, bloody hell, Emma." He crosses the last few feet to her, taking her head in his hands and pressing his mouth to hers.

"They're touchy as hell," he mumbles against her lips, and she smiles.

&&.

It goes on from there.

Killian finally takes his shower, they watch Christmas Vacation, break out the egg nog, and he does, in fact, give a dramatic and over-the-top speech about brotherhood, hamming it up for Emma's benefit, she's sure.

They even exchange gifts.

She'd been carrying around a small toy boat in her purse for a couple of weeks now, an impulse purchase in Target shortly after Killian had told Kid-Santa that was what he wanted.

He looks absolutely delighted, rushing to get her gift out of his bag, and she's surprised by how _unsurprised_ she is that he has something for her, too.

She opens an oddly wrapped package to reveal a set of noise-cancelling headphones, a little peace sign sticker stuck to one of the cups.

"Peace and quiet," he says proudly, and she nearly tears up.

"You remembered," she says, eyes fixed on the headphones until she can get herself under control.

It's — _god_ — it is literally the most thoughtful gift she's ever been given, which, yeah, is probably a sad commentary on her life, but he _listened_ , he listened and made it work, and, shit, she is in _so_ deep.

"You remembered, too," he says, holding up his boat. "Although I think I'd asked for something else, too...something about a kiss from a pretty girl?"

She sniffs, swiping at her nose. "I think you've already gotten a few of those."

"Have I? I can't recall." He purses his lips and raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, bloody hell, is this what it's going to be like?" Liam groans.

She leans over and gives Killian a peck on the mouth before impulsively moving to give Liam one on the cheek.

"Thank you — both — honestly," she says. "Liam, I know you haven't seen as much of it as Killian, but I may have been a little bit of a Grinch lately and you...well, just...thank you. Thanks for letting me come over."

"Anytime, Emma," Liam says and Killian nods.

She believes them.

&&.

Regina — in an entirely unprecedented move that Emma suspects has more to do with Robin than anything — not only gives them all the week off, but also throws a New Year's Eve party at her own house.

It's a mansion not unlike the ones they frequent for work, with a distinct black and white theme, but it's nice and she's surrounded by her friends.

Leroy — despite not actually having to work — does manage to put on a costume right before the clock strikes midnight.

It's literally just a diaper and they all spend the countdown laughing at Baby New Year, right up until the clock officially strikes midnight.

Then Killian's staring at her, eyebrows raised in question.

They've spent the week kissing in all sorts of places, but this would be the first time in front of their friends, and it's clear he's leaving the decision up to her.

She doesn't hesitate.

He kisses her back immediately, both of them keeping things (mostly) clean, but they still pull back to the whoops and hollers of the rest of the party.

They receive a hearty round of congratulations, and even Regina seems friendly.

It's a hell of a way to start a new year.

&&.

Emma stays with Evil Queen Entertainment, taxes be damned, and the second week of January they get their first gig — a typical pirate-and-princess thing.

She assaults him in the hallway.

With tongue.


End file.
